


Vanities

by laideur



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, things you consider when you do a lot of fanart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:59:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9048973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laideur/pseuds/laideur
Summary: Watson does a silly thing to himself.





	

Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was very late in the mornings, even later than his flatmate, was lying abed, having achieved consciousness but not yet surmounted the hurdle of opening his eyes. His other senses being well awake, he could smell bacon, eggs, toast, and, most importantly, coffee. From the sitting room he also could hear Mrs Hudson softly remonstrating Watson and the doctor’s sheepish replies. Holmes had no idea what Watson might have done to provoke such a tone of voice, but the thought “better him than me” supplied itself to his brain, and he let the matter pass. 

He eventually summoned the energy to slide out of bed and into his dressing gown, and shuffled into the sitting room.

“Good morning, Watson,” he yawned.

“Good morning,” said, presumably, Watson from behind the newspaper he was holding in front of his face. Holmes poured himself a cup of coffee and regarded the barricade of print. 

“Something interesting in the paper?”

“Not particularly. Tailors’ strike still ongoing.”

“Indeed. No murders? Arson? Sabotage? Grave robbing? Outbreak of rampant cannibalism?”

The hand on the newspaper tightened. “No.”

“Hm." Holmes sipped his coffee contemplatively. "Pass the butter, please.”

Watson reached one hand under the paper and pushed the butter dish toward Holmes with his fingertip. 

Holmes huffed. This was ridiculous. 

He reached out to rip the paper away. “I say, old man — good God!” 

Holmes reeled back. The teaspoon left his hand and clattered to the floor. Staring at him from across the table was someone very like Watson, nearly identical, in fact, save for one gross disfigurement. 

“You don’t think it an improvement, either, then,” said the impostor. 

"I hardly know what to say. I offer my most heartfelt condolences for your terrible loss."

“It was an experiment. I wanted to see how it would look. I haven’t been without it since before my army days and felt I could do with a...with a change.”

“And you didn’t even think to consult me?”

“Holmes, you’re a consulting detective, not a consulting barber.” 

“Yes, a consulting detective whose partner looks like he’s about ten years old." 

Watson sighed. He ran his fingers tentatively over his naked upper lip, still raw from the morning’s shave. “Is it really that bad?”

Holmes knit his eyebrows sympathetically. “My dear fellow, it’s worse.” 

Watson hung his head. “I don’t think I can go to my club.” 

“How long will it take to grow back?”

“A couple of months, at least, to get where it was before.” 

“I could give you a false one, from my disguise kit.”

Watson considered for a moment.

“No, I’ve brought this on myself and I must do the penance for it. I shall face it like a man.” 

“If not, necessarily, _with_ a face like a man.”


End file.
